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When Aristafeo arrived the next day, Doro showed him in, her surprise at his arrival kept from her face except, as she entered, her eyes, full of fear.
The tenor was in rehearsals, I knew, and would not be free until well after dinner. We had hours alone.
Thank you for coming to rehearse with me, I said, loud enough for Doro to hear as she left. My skills with the piano are rudimentary at best, and the piano is out of tune.
Aristafeo did not flinch in the slightest. Of course, he said.
The music room is this way, I said. If you’ll follow me?
He followed, and I drew the doors shut. As he passed me, I whispered, Play anything.
He smiled as he sat and began something that began in arpeggios and wild flourishes, and then settled into a melody, sweetly sad. As I walked to the piano bench, the pleasure of hearing him play again filled me. It was like it had been the first time, being admitted to a place where only the two of us existed. But on this afternoon, it was also exactly like being somewhere only the two of us could speak to each other.
For I was sure Doro would have to listen in on me as part of her duties.
Now it is harder for us to be overheard, I said.
Yes, he said. You’re good.
Will you remember this? I said. This theme you are playing?
Of course, he said.
Play it for me always, then, I said. When I ask for it.
Of course, he said. He met my eyes and did not pause. What am I here to help you with? Or is this song the one you wanted?
I set out the music for Bellini’s La Sonnambula.
You can adapt it for piano? I asked.
He raised his eyebrows in mock contempt. Of course, he said. I won’t refuse you anything I can do.
Please, I said, as he studied it. Let’s begin.
I sat silently, afraid even to meet his eyes, as he found his way through the music confidently. I only watched his fingers as they moved along the keys. The long hours of sitting on the Empress’s bench, waiting for her to ring for me, listening to him in memory, had become the long hours of listening to Pauline play the Chopin nocturne in Baden-Baden almost every night as night fell. I knew it well enough to ask for it by name, though I didn’t dare to, not yet. I still felt guilty that I had given up on him, that I had believed myself foolish to think he cared for me. This man now beside me, playing for me, hidden in my past, who had somehow kept watch over me this whole time, close but not close enough until yesterday afternoon.
And yet we were too soon. Cupid’s slow arrow was still too fast. All those years ago, I had told myself I would look for him only after the Empire had fallen or the Emperor or Empress died; that seemed safe. I did not have the luxury of taking risks. I did not ask him, but I felt sure he didn’t, either. I could have waited, I suppose, a little longer then, except I could not. And neither could he; he leaned in and kissed me once more, his hands still playing evenly, as if this were the most ordinary of gestures.
Five
ON SEPTEMBER 2, 1870, after an earlier false report of French victories, the Emperor surrendered to the Prussians and was taken captive along with the Prince Imperial.
There was no negotiation for the Emperor’s return, but instead the Sénat noisily convened and declared the new republic without him. The Empress was chased from Paris.
There were wild celebrations in the street for the birth of the new republic. It was as if in defeat, Paris dressed in the air, briefly, of a liberated city—liberated from empire. Crowds descended on the Tuileries and it was looted before the new government’s troops took control and continued, at least, the posture of a continued war with Prussia.
All over the city, old newspapers immediately covered over the imperial N’s and E’s, soon to be replaced by immortelles, the symbol of the new republic.
I received the news from my dressmaker, who admitted he was in mourning. His eyes were red from grief.
I am ruined without her, he said. Without Compiègne alone, it would be a disaster, but now there will be no winter balls, either. Will these senators have balls? My congratulations on taking receipt of my last dresses, he said, and bowed ostentatiously.
When I then informed him I was there to order even more clothes, the dressmaker prolonged our visit, urging me to try the newest dress forms on. When I left him, he was all smiles again. As was I.
I had kept my impatience from showing—I nearly ran all the way back to the apartment.
All over Paris, I passed workmen busy chipping off the imperial seals. The imperial seals had been taken off me as well.
This was the day of my liberation, the end of my bargain with the Comtesse. I would leave him soon, I decided—within a day or two. I would have to leave the apartment as if I were going on one of my walks and take almost nothing with me except the jewels, which I would sell as I went to pay my way. The departure should be sudden so that he would have no way to stop me, as if he turned a corner and I went another way on to another life entirely.
But where to go? I thought to go to Pauline, back to Baden-Baden; the jewels meant I could afford to pay my own way this time. Or, if it was too dangerous to be in Baden-Baden—the tenor knew her, he could be there in an instant—perhaps Leipzig, then. Pauline had spoken fondly of it and had a good friend there, a composer. I could debut there instead of Weimar. I knew I could simply go to her unannounced. She would take me in.
Back at the apartment, I planned a dinner, thinking to have a last grand meal with the tenor. I would give him one last happy memory. I gave directions to Lucy for the shopping, named some of the dishes I knew he liked from our days in Baden-Baden, asking if she thought she could make carré d’agneau boulangère, poisson vert, even something as festive as punch à la russe.
She looked at me strangely. I had never suggested or planned anything of this kind to her. Lucy and Doro had adjusted after my return to my new schedule of rehearsal, the new clothes, the new bearing, but we’d also resumed many old habits, like our game of cards with gin, and this house still ran itself without my guidance, as if it were still the petite théatre du désir it began as. I had never intruded on Lucy’s duties this way, never acted the part of ma?tresse. I had never had the tenor to dinner, either, not this way. Sometimes, after a night spent here, he would make his way to the larder and return with a sausage, bread, and cheese.
No sooner had I wondered if this dinner was some unwelcome intrusion or if the menu was eccentric to her at best—the French could be quite strict about what was eaten when and how, none the more so than servants—when Lucy spoke.
Mademoiselle, I will do my best, but . . . and she gestured around us, with a laugh.
What is it? I asked.
Well, she said. Poisson vert, perhaps. But carré d’agneau? Most likely filet de chat.
When my expression showed I did not understand, she said, You may recall the Siege?
Of course, I said, chastened. Of course. But . . . didn’t the Emperor surrender?
She gave me a cutting look that surprised me. Yes, she said. He surrendered himself. With his prince, poor child. But we have not surrendered. We’ve lost the man who could never lead us to victory, but we have not lost. Now, it seems to me, we very well might win.
I tried to seem cheerful at this prospect or even to believe her. She noticed, and I could tell it offended her.
There is mail, she said. And with that, she pushed a letter from Pauline my way.